


Outreach

by kethni



Category: Veep (TV)
Genre: F/M, Previous Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 10:50:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10897809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kethni/pseuds/kethni
Summary: Jonah's staff are having a night out.





	Outreach

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to CrazyMaryT for the suggestion!

He didn’t know how it had come to this. He was educated. He had a wealth of experience. He had the names and numbers of heads of state and CEOs of multinationals in his cell phone. He had a boat. He patronised the opera.

He did not push twenty dollar bulls into strippers’ garter belts.

He couldn’t even look any of the… ladies in the face, let alone anything else. All he could see was a sea of legs: either bare or clad in stockings, generally dragging along a pair of ludicrously vertiginous shoes, a surprising amount of which were transparent. Kent was not prudish, and he was certainly not sheltered. He was aware that kinks and fetishes were like bacteria: widespread, varied, unfairly decried, and often vital. However, he thought that squashed, blistered toes, and callused perspiring feet, were likely a very niche interest.

Beside him, Ben was eating Buffalo wings and fries. When he noticed Kent looking, he shook the bucket at him. Kent wasn’t hungry, and the wings looked overcooked, but it was better than looking at the stage.

‘The beer is fucking awful,’ Ben said, above the pounding music. ‘I’ve pissed stronger than this.’

‘The wine is terrible,’ Kent said.

Ben belched. ‘They have Scotch.’

Kent looked at their colleagues: a group of ridiculously pretty, twenty-something young men who spent their time calling each other “bro” and talking about how “turnt” they got the previous weekend.

‘How much for a bottle?’ Kent asked.

***

‘What’s the matter, bro?’ Colt asked, raising his voice over the music.

Kent waved his hand. ‘Nothing. Please continue… ogling the employees.’

‘You missing that secretary?’ Storm asked.

‘ _Excuse_ me?’ Kent demanded.

Ben sniggered into his wings. ‘Jonah’s been worrying that you’re missing Sue.’

Kent pressed his hand to his forehead. ‘Is that intended as some form of perverse humour?’

Colt slung his arm around Kent’s shoulders. ‘No, bro, we’ve all seen you crying into your coffee.’

Kent’s brows drew together. ‘That is utterly ridiculous, I do not –’

‘There’s a real cute black chick,’ Brady said, pointing. ‘That’s your type, right?’

Kent looked at Ben, speechlessly.

‘What? You’ve got jungle fever, embrace it!’ Ben said.

‘You… I…’

Storm waved the stripper over.

Kent frantically waved his hands. ‘I don’t have any form of fever.’

Ben gestured at the stripper to carry on. ‘Ignore him, he’ll warm up to you.’

‘He would appreciate your attentions more,’ Kent said, randomly pointing at Brady.

‘Alright!’ Brady said.

Ben shook his head at head. ‘There’s no helping you.’

‘Sue Wilson is a woman of taste, discretion, skill, and efficiency. She’s not a stripper with a weave and fake breasts!’ Kent protested.

Brady’s face fell. ‘They’re not real?’

‘Of course they’re not real, you fucking moron,’ Ben said. ‘This is her job. What, do you think every morning she wakes up with gold eyelids and a glittery cooch?’

‘…Yes?’

***

‘No, no, no,’ Kent protested as he was propelled into a small and plushily decorated private room.

‘It’ll do you good,’ Ben said. ‘Christ knows we’re all sick to death of seeing you pouting over Sue.’

The door was pulled shut behind Kent. He put his hand on his hips.

Pouting? _Pouting?_ Kent was no sulking pre-schooler. He was a grown man. Mature and experienced. His relationship with Sue had been over for more than a year. They had both moved on. She was married and he was… he had moved on. Perhaps, _perhaps_ , there were times when he was reminded of their brief relationship and he took a moment to acknowledge the loss. But he did _not_ pout.

After a moment, the door was opened, and Ben gave him the bottle of whiskey. ‘You’re probably gonna need this.’

Then he slammed the door shut.

Kent sighed heavily, an event that was quickly becoming almost habitual, and looked around the tiny room.

There was one seat, a heavily cushioned armchair, in front of a dais lit by a spotlight. The carpet was worn down but seemed relatively clean. After a few seconds, tinny music with a heavy rhythmic beat with came through the speakers. Kent took a swig of the whiskey. 

‘Take a seat, sweetie.’ The dancer; skinny, unnaturally golden brown and with waist-length platinum-blonde hair, swayed past him.

Kent clasped his hands together. ‘I’m not really...’

The dancer stepped up onto the dais. ‘Let me guess, friends thought they’d treat you?’

He shifted his feet. ‘Something like that.’

Despite what most people would have assumed, it wasn’t Kent’s first sojourn in an establishment of this nature. He had been dragged to one before, and had found it every bit as uncomfortable.  A private dance was, however, a new low.

The striper took her position on the dais and flipped her hair back. ‘They’ve paid up front, sweetie, so you might as well park your little butt and enjoy the show.’

Kent was uncertain for a moment, and then sat down, covering his eyes with his hand.

‘Is it your birthday?’ she asked.

Kent looked at her through splayed fingers. ‘No.’

‘You make a big sale?’ she spun around and looked at him. ‘Hmm, you’re not celebrating, are you? Your buddies are trying to cheer you up. Lemme guess, divorce? Bad breakup?’

‘Something like that.’ Kent look a gulp of his drink. ‘Not recently.’

‘Still hurts, huh.’ She dipped backwards in an impressive display of flexibility. ‘I’ve had my share of those.’

‘You’re very young,’ Kent said. ‘You have lots of time.’

She swayed down the dais steps and towards Kent. ‘Sweetie, if I told you there were more fish in the sea, would it make ya feel better?’

He shook his head sheepishly. ‘No’

She slid onto his lap. He gripped the arms of the chair and tried not to think about the warm body pressed against his. The mix of softness and strength was always alluring.

‘Are you supposed to be... touching me?’ he asked.

She laughed. This close he could see the sweat seeping through her thick makeup.

‘This is why it’s called a lap dance, sweetie,’ she said. ‘Your friends paid for the dance. The conversation is free.’

She was grinding against him.

‘Does talking garner better tips?’ he asked weakly.

‘With men who want to talk.’ She surged up, rubbing her breasts against his chest. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Sue.’ He shook his head. He’d drunk too much. The room was too warm. The music was too loud. A mix of body oil and glitter was soaking into his shirt.

‘Can you win her back?’ she asked.

‘No. She got married,’ he said quietly. ‘At first I hoped but... No.’

She looked at him as she lifted up her arms and fanned out her hair. ‘You cheat on her? Beat on her?’

‘No, never, I… I never… I _would_ never.’

She turned around to rub her back against his chest. ‘Nothing that couldn’t be forgiven then.’

Kent screwed his eyes shut. ‘I’m not good with... people.’

‘On the spectrum not good, or just regular grouchy antisocial asshole?’

It made him smile. ‘I’m not sure. I’ve never been diagnosed.’

It wasn’t the first time that he’d been asked. It wasn’t the first someone had suggested it. Usually it was intended to be insulting, although Kent saw no reason to be affronted. His offences were largely the offences of ignorance when so many politicians were rude to the point of being abusive, not only with their contemporaries but with their staffers and even, at times, with members of the public. Kent was as awkward with those he wished to impress as those he cared nothing for. At times, he was _more_ awkward, as the desire to impress sabotaged itself.

Sue had been one of the few women of his regard who saw through his awkwardness, his stumbling attempts at opening up, and his difficulty in forging a connection. 

Kent felt the stripper turn around to face him again. She was slightly breathless.

‘Well, sweetie,’ she said, ‘we’ve both got a choice: pine away for someone who doesn’t appreciate is, or cry it out, stiffen our resolve, and find someone who does appreciate us.’

‘I think my resolve is stiff enough,’ he muttered.

‘Yeah, he’s a friendly guy.’ She cocked her head. ‘For an extra twenty I can be extremely friendly.’

He took a fifty from his wallet. ‘No. Thank you. That’s not necessary.’

‘Don’t save yourself too long, sweetie, she said gently. ‘You won’t catch any fish leaving your rod back on the bank.’

        The End.

 


End file.
